


Cold

by RatTale



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Regret, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 10:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15772110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/RatTale
Summary: It's freezing, Watson is sick, and Holmes is not being very sympathetic.





	Cold

It was freezing. Puffs of white coiled and whisked out from their mouths as they waited in the shadows for their target. Holmes kept his eyes on the tavern, the warm lights and laughter inviting in the bitter cold. But they couldn’t move, an hour, two hours, three - it didn’t matter, they had to catch him tonight.

Watson broke the silence with a loud sneeze.  
  
“God bless you,” Holmes said automatically, then turned a severe expression on his friend, “But do try and be quiet.”  
  
“Sorry Holmes.”  
  
The voice was raw, and Holmes spared him another glance, noting the dusting of red on his cheeks and slightly glazed eyes. Holmes tilted a sharp eyebrow, “You brought this upon yourself, my friend. If you weren’t so eager to traverse London chasing sick-people -”  
  
“They are my patients-” a sharp cough cut him off and Watson pressed his hand over his mouth to muffle the raw hacking.  
  
“They are not,” Holmes said. “They are sick-people whom you help because you feel you must.” He shook his head at his friend when he’d finally calmed, “and they have not been paying you.”  
  
Watson did not argue this, merely stuffed his hands deeper into his coat pockets and stared at the tavern. A hushed silence fell around them in the form of sudden snow flakes. The minutes continued to tick away, giving the cold time to dig in through their coats and into the skin. Holmes shivered, he was becoming quite eager to wrap this one up. Watson had just suppressed another hard cough when Holmes stiffened.  
  
There he was. James Paterson, thief and murderer, swaggered from the tavern, his lanky legs tottering precariously over the slick cobblestones.  
  
Holmes lifted a hand, sending a signal to the two constables who sat in a disguised huddle around a small fire. One stood and stretched, the next signal and slowly men pulled themselves from the shadows, all eyes on their target.  
  
Holmes could feel the anticipation in his hands, in his chest, prickling and settling around him like a humming aura. There would be no where to run.  
  
But Paterson suddenly came to a stop in the middle of the street. Not to far from Holmes and Watson, but nowhere near where he had to be. A sudden tenseness overcame his stance, and Holmes felt the rush of adrenaline rip through him, Paterson knew.  
  
“Stop him!” the words had barely formed when Watson was already taking off, running after their target as he took off back down the street. The police whistle screeched in the night, and three more constables took chase. But Paterson was drunk, and Watson was quicker than he looked, and with a jump he slammed into Paterson in a hard tackle, brining him to a painful stop on the cobblestones.  
  
Paterson screamed in pain, his hip not agreeing with the hard contact to the road.  
  
“Well done Watson!” Holmes laughed as he came to stand next to him. Watson, suppressing hard coughs, didn’t offer him a glance. His hands were turning Paterson on his back, already inspecting the wounded hip.  
  
“Fine tackle, doctor!” Lestrade said, kneeling next to him, Watson nodded, and continued his inspection, pulling down the trousers to see better. “How in the blazes did you know he would even be here?” Lestrade stood as he spoke, turning to Holmes who couldn't help but laugh.  
  
“Elementary, Lestrade.” and laughed again at the hard glare the man turned on him, “I mean only it was a logical deduction. Paterson would not leave, not when he had so much going for him in the underground of London.”  
  
“And why this bar?”  
  
Holmes smiled, “I can't give away all my secrets, inspector.”  
  
“Well however you did it, we're grateful.” said Lestrade turning to their captive, “He's a short drop way from a long sleep.”  
  
Paterson was shaking, his eyes were wide from pain and fear but he didn’t move an inch. Holmes smiled, although the conclusion was not as interesting as he might have hoped, the whole case had been intriguing enough. Now they could go home and rest.  
  
Finally Watson sat back, “It’s not broken,” he said, coming to a struggling stand, “He’ll need to rest and let it heal on its own.”  
  
“Excellent, Watson!” Holmes said with a quick nod, “I shall find us a cab!”  
  
He took all but three steps when he heard Lestrade ask; “Are you al right doctor?”  
  
Holmes turned, Watson was being held fast by Lestrade, one hand on his shoulder and clear concern in his eyes. Holmes sighed. It was freezing, he was cold to the bone, it had been a long night, he was still high on the successful conclusion of the case and he wanted to go home. But Lestrade was being his nosy self.  
  
Watson smiled with far more patience than Holmes felt was warranted, and waved away his concern, “Just a cold, I’ll be right as rain soon enough.”  
  
“You of all people should know a cold can turn nasty if not properly cared for,” Lestrade said in turn, his grip unrelenting. “And this one is turning that way.”  
  
“And by keeping him here, you are staying him from his bed where he can rest!” Holmes all but snapped, good humour well and truly gone. But Lestrade, surprisingly ignored him.  
  
Watson, still patient, placed a hand on Lestrade’s and said gently, “I am fine Inspector, I thank you for your concern-” sharp hacking coughs ruined any reassurance, and without pause Lestrade called for one of his constables. “Go find them a cab.”  
  
“Yessir!”  
  
“Come on doctor,” Lestrade said as he led him away, “Sit here while you wait.” Watson didn’t resist and he was pulled along with Holmes following quietly. Was his friend truly that ill? He hadn't seemed that way when they left. He'd been adamant in coming along.  
  
The fact that Lestrade not only noticed, but reacted on his discomfort, cut the guilt away with a pulse of anger, but he kept it down. He should have said something, should have told Watson he could stay at home. He had noticed of course - he noticed everything, but he tended to forget to show concern. And Watson, the stubborn creature, would never complain.  
  
Once Watson was seated the Inspector stood, shooting Holmes a disappointed glare before heading off to where Paterson was being pulled into the wagon.  
  
“Sorry Holmes,” Watson rasped, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Holmes frowned, a sudden sense of guilt biting down on his chest.  
  
The air was still bitter cold, the falling flakes turning the black cobblestones into a white landscape. He never cared how he treated people, mostly they were acquaintances, clients or some other frivolous reason to interact - if he could do away with them altogether he would. But he cared about how he treated Watson. Because Watson mattered. How difficult did it have to be to show that?  
  
How long before Watson became fed-up and left? He shivered at the thought, heart suddenly tight in his throat.   
  
A light hand touched his arm, and Holmes looked up on instinct to find Watson staring at him with a curiously kind expression. “Holmes,” he said when Holmes dropped his eyes again, “I am glad to be here by your side.”  
  
Their eyes locked, the world around them suddenly softer, and the truth of those words felt as crystal clear as the ice beneath their boots. It said more than what it actually said; that Watson didn't mind, that he cared about Holmes, that nothing he did would ever make him regret being here with him.  
  
Holmes quietly removed his own coat and draped it over his friend’s shoulders. Watson blinked in surprise, and Holmes smiled back, “And I am glad to have you there.”

Watson's returned smile warmed him to the bone.


End file.
